


Atonement

by Thalius



Series: Chapter 16 Rewrite [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Son Relationship, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghost(s), Gen, Healing, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury Recovery, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season 2 Finale Rewrite, the Force is an Ocean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: He has to make up for what happened—with Gideon, with Luke, with the kid.The marshlands of Dagobah are very, very old, and may provide him with answers. All he has to do is listen.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Luke Skywalker
Series: Chapter 16 Rewrite [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134737
Comments: 46
Kudos: 327
Collections: Noromo Mando: Mandalorian Genfics Collection





	1. As Above, So Below

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short-ish epilogue to [the finale rewrite I wrote earlier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734702/chapters/70455903) to tie up loose ends, but it got way out of hand and is now more or less a full-blown sequel lmao. This fic is not going to make sense unless you read the main rewrite first, so I recommend doing that if you haven’t already. 
> 
> I also wanna say thank you SO much to all the wonderful comments and feedback I’ve gotten for this rewrite so far, it really means a lot to me!! I hope you enjoy :)

Din slept well, and heavily, but his dreams were not his own.

Snapshots of Imperial corridors and white plastoid Stormtrooper armour were familiar enough to him, but not in this way, not as he saw it now. The angle was different—too low, too wide, seen through eyes he did not have. Other things, less familiar, flashed in tandem; needles and binders and men in medical scrubs who spoke as if they didn't notice he was in the room. There was no phantom pain attached to these images, but it was easy enough to fill in the gaps.

Din saw himself as well, in these dreams that did not belong to him. He was bloody and broken, the shock of his own face cruelly exposed for the world to see. He saw, too, flashes of himself in other places; the sharp visor of his helmet, dewed with rain droplets; the broad, sparkling sheen of his breastplate, viewed from the crook of his own arm. He saw the world as the kid saw it, and it was full of visions of himself.

This revelation—that he was not inside his own head—didn't shock him as he thought it would; it was strangely easy to accept that the kid was dreaming for both of them. There was no urgency to what he saw as he slept. They were presented plainly to him, without comment or concern, as if the kid was unaware Din was even watching. Maybe he was.

He was content to let their minds drift together, allowing the kid to wander without much interference. If this had happened before, he didn't remember it, but it felt obvious and true to him now, as he watched thoughts that were not his own wind around him. They didn't touch him—he was merely an observer, watching from above, behind—but the current of the kid's thoughts forked effortlessly around him to accommodate for his presence in their flow.

Most of it was simple; fuzzy impressions of places they'd been to, like the twinkling sunlight reflecting off the krill ponds of Sorgan, or the endlessly orange dunes of Tatooine, or the expansive lava flats of Nevarro. The kid caught on details that had long ago become mundane to Din, painting light and texture over places unremarkable. It surprised him how much of an impact their travels had on the kid's psyche, though it shouldn't have. Something about it eased a deep tension in his chest; the kid enjoyed travelling with him, and found the places they visited beautiful.

But vistas were not all that the kid had noticed—he remembered their shadows, too. The flash of drawn weapons, swung with deadly intent; the dark uncertainty of his pram, locked away from the incredible violence he could still very much hear; sharpness, again, from men in Imperial uniforms, pale and omnipresent and baleful. Men who did not care how much he was hurting or how badly he wanted to leave.

Din intervened whenever those memories surfaced, nudging the kid in another direction. He didn't offer his own thoughts—those would surely be worse than whatever the kid had seen—but instead guided him towards more pleasant memories; warm meals and shiny toys and the inside of the _Razor Crest._ The kid didn't know yet what had happened to the ship, and Din wouldn't spoil it with the intrusion of his own unfortunate perspective.

He dreamt of broth, and hammocks, and the passenger seat of his ship, temporarily free from the grief that this home was now gone. The kid was happy here, and he would be, too.

* * *

When Din woke, there was a sky above him.

He dimly registered the grey-green smog in the air and the rooted canopy of trees in his periphery—and then he registered everything else. The smell of sweat and copper filled his helmet, and it felt like every important part of his body was broken. It was a step up from the last time he woke—covered in blood and dying on the floor—but not by much.

He felt the back of his helmet catch on the headrest of the passenger seat as he shifted his head, and when he reached up to tug at the safety harness over his chest, flakes of dried blood fluttered off his armour. His hand throbbed inside his glove, the joints of his knuckles swollen and the skin bruised. With a sigh, he let his head wilt downwards to look at the kid, who was nestled in the crook of his arm.

The sight of him still made Din flinch. Swaddled in a filthy cloak, his skin was frighteningly pale, and the delicate plush of his face had hollowed out from whatever Gideon had done to him. He was alive, but he was not okay.

Din touched one of the kid's cheeks with a tentative finger as he heard the viewport frame detach from the X-Wing. They'd arrived, finally, which meant he had to get up. The prospect alone made him tired.

He heard Luke clear his throat and looked up wearily to see him standing on the narrow frame of the fighter, watching with a tentative expression, like he was sorry for interrupting them.

"How is he?" the man asked.

"Same as before, I think," he replied, and pressed a palm to the kid's chest to make sure. He was still breathing, and was warm to the touch.

Luke offered a hand to help him up. "Good. You need to unbuckle."

Din nodded and felt for the release clasp of his harness, and then, surprising himself, he took Luke's hand, who helped drag him out of his seat. The man was stronger than he looked, and his grip was firm.

He straightened up into a proper standing position on the hull of the fighter, wincing. "This is…?" Din tried to recall the name of the planet as he glanced around. Jedi seemed to like forests a whole lot.

Luke jumped back into the pilot's seat to dig around for a drop-ladder. "Dagobah," he replied, securing the ladder roll to the side of the fighter and kicking it so that it unfurled, the rungs clacking against the hull. "You need help getting down?"

"Probably not." The trees around the landing site were thick and craggy, their roots partially obscured by marshy terrain. They were different from the tall, narrow pines of Corvus; they looked far, far older.

"Mandalorian?"

Din glanced down. Luke was already on the ground, looking up at him expectantly. Right. He let out another sigh.

He did manage to get down on his own, albeit slowly. The still-healing wound in his stomach, along with the kid in his arms, made descending the ladder a challenge, but eventually his boots met wet earth. Luke waited only a moment before waving him forward, urging him on with a speed Din did not possess.

"Wait."

Luke stopped to look at him. Din glanced back at the X-Wing, and then at the forest before them. He would hardly call this a landing zone; it was mostly just a small break in the dense forest canopy and a patch of relatively flat ground. "It doesn't look like there's anything here," he said finally. It came out like a question.

"There isn't much," Luke admitted. "But I have all I need here to help him." He hesitated then, his mouth twitching. "I know it's odd, but I need you to trust me."

He met the man's eyes. They were a fierce and honest blue, tinged with a wry humour that Din found some reassurance in. He wasn't used to people explaining themselves, and he certainly wasn't used to people being kind about it, either.

And there was something else, too—that faint tug again, at the back of his mind. He'd felt it with Ahsoka, and again with the kid. It was too weak and buried too deeply to be called a feeling; it was something baser than that. Ahsoka had told him to trust it, and for some reason, he did.

"Okay," he said quietly, and followed the Jedi into the woods.

* * *

Their trek through the marshy forest was short, but the terrain was not friendly, and exhaustion was making it difficult to put one foot in front of the other.

Luke kept looking back at him as they moved through the swamp, his expression pinched slightly like he was about to say something, before thinking better of it and turning around again. They didn't speak at all during their walk, which suited Din just fine. He had to spend his mental energy making sure he didn't break an ankle on a gnarled branch.

The air around them was hazy with fog, and the moisture dewed heavily on his armour. It mixed with the gore still coating the steel, and red rivulates ran down his breastplate and vambraces. He wondered again what he must look like—a _mando'ad_ whose beskar wept blood, carrying a small child through a dense forest in the company of a sorcerer. The foundlings in his covert would have enjoyed the story, but he didn't know where they were now.

Unlike Corvus, this forest was noisy with life, uninhibited by destructive industry. All of it was foreign to him, and in some ways sounded unwelcome, but the creatures in this place seemed content enough to mind their own business. He made a silent promise to them that he would do the same.

There was something else, too—movement in the forest, always in his periphery, always too faint to catch when he looked for it. If Luke noticed, he made no mention of it, and Din wondered if maybe it was the concussion or the exhaustion or the fear getting to him. The wisps never seemed to advance or draw closer, so he paid them no mind, concentrating on the careful placement of his feet instead.

Din was so focused on the ground in front of him that he almost ran into Luke before realising he'd stopped. He jerked, hissed as it jarred a dozen injuries, and stepped around a suspicious patch of mud to see what the man was looking at. They'd come upon a small clearing, and it seemed to be the landmark Luke had been guiding them towards.

Well, _clearing_ was a generous term—it was a small patch of ground that hadn't yet been completely invaded by the twisting, endless snarl of trees, covered instead by reedy grass and thin, fibrous roots. In the centre of the modest patch sat a small stone dais, flat and rectangular.

Luke looked at him. "I haven't done this before," he admitted, a bit sheepishly, but there was no uncertainty in his face when he spoke. "But it's fairly simple. Come on."

They stepped into the clearing. Luke directed him to stand at one end of the dais, and then stood opposite to him. "Can you kneel?" Luke asked, giving him another skeptical once-over.

Din narrowed his eyes. He suspected the kid was calling him old, but he was probably just asking about his injuries. "Yes," he replied, and Luke gestured for him to sit, sinking to the ground with an easy, fluid grace that made him horribly jealous.

After a moment of silent grousing, Din joined him. His body screamed at him for it, and sitting back on his haunches made his knees ache and his back throb.

He distracted himself by studying the stone. The dais before them reminded him of the henge on Tython—its sandy, grey surface was smooth and rounded with time, and faint ruins were carved along its edges in a script he couldn't begin to recognise. Despite the trees' hesitance to advance further, life had nonetheless begun to encroach on its place here, growing bits of fuzzy moss and thick reedgrass wherever a crack revealed itself on its surface. The dais was incredibly old, older than Din could probably fathom.

"Set the child in the centre of the stone," Luke instructed, and Din looked down at the kid. He wondered if he would be cold, lying on the damp stone, and then shoved the thought from his mind as he did as Luke said.

The Jedi nodded. "Good. You need to maintain physical contact with him—it's easier if you take your gloves off."

Din pulled them off one by one and let them drop on the ground beside him. The air was chilly against his skin, but he leaned forward slightly, cupping his hands around the kid. His jumper was dry now, and crusty with blood— _not his,_ Din reminded himself.

"You said he healed you," Luke murmured, not quite a question, and Din looked up at him.

"Yes."

"I can feel his register in the Force, but it's… duplicated," Luke continued slowly. He placed his own hand on the child's head, and then fell silent as he seemed to concentrate on something.

Din wondered if he should tell Luke about the dreams he'd had, but hesitated. Not because he thought the man wouldn't believe him, but because they were deeply private. He'd felt an echo of the kid inside his head while he'd slept, and although he didn't know what it meant, he knew it wasn't nothing.

He frowned then, finally registering Luke's words. "Duplicated?"

Luke nodded. "I think… what he did was something I hadn't thought possible. Not with someone who isn't a Jedi." He looked up, eyes meeting Din's visor. "Do you feel anything from this place? Can you sense how intense everything is?"

Din frowned, and tried to concentrate. On what, he wasn't sure, but he knew Luke wasn't asking about how odd the forest looked. It was impossible to know what he was searching for, but he gave it his best shot anyway. Something intense, he thought, something intangible.

After a long, frustrated moment of silence, he eventually fell back to his senses, and had much better luck on that front. The air was thick, and smelled wooded and wet. The trees around them swayed from a wind he could not detect, and between their trunks were the same, wisping movements from before. They weren't shadows, nor forms—the fog itself was shifting, as if an unseen force moved through it. He decided it wasn't a threat, though he couldn't figure out why he was so certain of that.

_Concentrate._

Din took a deep breath. He felt the cold on his hands; he felt the tiny warmth of the kid's body against his palms. He watched the kid's chest rise and fall softly, a reassuring constant. He tried to search for that same tug in his mind, faint and deep, and thought he felt it again as he watched the kid sleep.

He did, more strongly than before, and looked up at Luke. "I just feel him," he said finally.

Luke didn't seem surprised at that; his mouth tugged up faintly. "I see."

The Jedi exhaled then, as if centring himself, and settled more comfortably on his knees. Din waited for a long stretch before realising he wasn't going to get any further explanation, and prodded again.

"What… did he do?"

Luke frowned, considering for a moment before he spoke. "There is… a way to bind a person to their body," he said slowly, "even in death, to prevent them from dying. But there is a cost to it. I've only heard of failed attempts, but this—I think… I think he bound a part of himself to you in order to keep you alive."

Din watched the kid's chest. It rose, and fell, and rose again, even and steady. He looked different than he normally did when sleeping—his features were more lax, more… absent. But there was life still present in his body.

"What does that mean?"

"He's tethered to you, and himself, but it's faint," Luke told him. "It's why you need to keep a hold of him."

Din's fingers twitched, and his grip on the kid became more firm. "Can you help him?"

Luke nodded. "I have to guide him back into himself. The tether to you will be the conduit. Have you ever meditated?"

"No," Din replied easily.

"That's alright. It's easy enough to do." Luke looked him over appraisingly, and his mouth twitched again. "Get comfortable, first of all."

"This isn't comfortable," he muttered, but adjusted his legs so there wasn't so much strain on his thighs. It didn't help much. "How does this help the kid?"

"I told you to trust me," Luke reminded him, chiding. "Now, relax your body. Your shoulders, jaw, neck, all of it."

Din did that. Or tried to; relaxing meant he couldn't angle or hold any part of his body to relieve pressure on his injuries, and the exhale he let out was pained.

"You're in rough shape," Luke observed, brow pinched in sympathy.

"I know. I'll live." He cocked his head at the Jedi. "Well?"

"It's good enough," Luke said. "And—I would take off your helmet. What is it made out of?"

His throat tightened. "What does that matter?"

"The Force bends around it—I can feel it. You need an unobstructed connection to the child."

Din looked down at the kid, laying still on the stone dais. His heart began to pound. He thought he'd have more time with his armour—he thought he would have the luxury of saying goodbye to it when he was alone. A sharp, bitter regret welled in his chest, mourning the loss of something he'd never really had in the first place. He should have known better than to expect such an accommodation. Even now, shielded from the Empire, he could not trust to have any measure of privacy.

"You can put it back on after," Luke assured him, and Din remembered how astute Jedi were at picking up on emotions. He wanted to be angry about it, but he didn't have the energy. "It's just for this."

"No, I can't," he whispered. He pulled one hand away from the kid, careful to keep his other grip firm, and grabbed at the lip of his helmet.

He did not hesitate as he pulled it off. Cool, moist air rushed in as he peeled it away from his face, and he set the helmet down on top of his gloves with a shaking hand. It stared up at him, the steel surface greasy with dirt and blood, and he turned his head away until it left his periphery entirely.

It was done now. There was no use in being upset about it.

He looked back to the dais, reminding himself what he was here for. Without the tint of his visor colouring his vision, the kid looked even more pale now. He swallowed hard, and his eyes flicked up to Luke. The man's expression was one of shock, and he realised there was still blood all over his face from his fight with Gideon.

"It's not mine," he assured him, and wiped at his face tiredly with the back of his free hand. Luke nodded and pulled a rag from a pocket in his flight suit, handing it over silently.

Din whispered a quiet thank you and brushed away the worst of the gore. He then wiped his hand clean, tossed the cloth beside his helmet, and grabbed the kid again. "Okay," he whispered. "I'm ready."

"Close your eyes," Luke said quietly. "And think about him."

An easy task. He wondered briefly what his thoughts would possibly even look like without the kid in the centre of them, binding them all together. Then he focused himself and narrowed his attention only to the kid.

"Form a picture of him in your mind," Luke instructed. "As clearly as possible. And not just a static image of him; think about who he is—how he communicates with you, how he behaves. How you feel about him. You'll need a living memory of—of…?"

"Grogu."

"Grogu," Luke repeated. He was silent for a moment, and the noise of the forest filled the air. "Be as precise and specific as you can—"

"I have it."

"Already?" He sounded surprised.

Din nodded, though Luke wouldn't be able to see it. "Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

There was an eager satisfaction in Luke's voice when he spoke. "Good."

Din heard the man shift once more, before he felt Luke's hands lay overtop his own—one bare, one gloved. He flinched at the contact, but didn't pull away.

"I'm going to connect with him now," Luke told him, "and bind him back to his body. You must not lose your focus on Grogu during that time, and you cannot stop, or move, or break contact until I tell you to. It could take me minutes or it could take me hours." There was a pause. "Do you understand?"

He heard what else Luke was asking, what he meant but did not say. That this was not a definite outcome; that they could do this for days and not succeed. That the kid might not survive. That once started, they would not stop until it was finished—one way or the other.

"I'm ready," Din whispered, his voice quiet and full of conviction.

Luke exhaled. "Begin."

* * *

_There are things Grogu does know. He knows what this place is, even though no one taught him about it. He knows that he is below where he should be, and that below_ _ **him**_ _is a very, very long way down. He knows that he is too small to be in such a big place, and that frightens him._

_He had been in a different place before, but it is gone now. The colours and shapes and forms of the big hallway had slowly smeared away, like a man rubbing soap over a window, until he ended up here, too far below, and all of it a deep colour he doesn't know the name of._

_He hadn't been alone at first, not when he was still in the big hallway; he had been beside_ _**him** _ _, beside the man who always came back, beside the person who didn't know the same word for father as Grogu did. He'd said it to him so many times before, but the man didn't understand what he said because he couldn't say it out loud._

_He wants to say something out loud now. It's too quiet in this place, the colour of it unfamiliar, and it grows darker the longer he is in here. He knows he is sinking, but there is no way to swim; he knows which direction down is, but he doesn't know how to go up. He is too scared to move, too scared to sink further down, so he stays where he is, small and still._

_He can't say things out loud, so he thinks. He tries to think about up, about the place he wants to go back to. It has walls that shake, it has a heater that only sometimes works, it has a hammock for him with a very soft blanket, and it has soup that makes his insides warm. Most importantly, it has the hard man who doesn't listen to him when he calls him father. He talks a lot inside his own head, under his helmet, because he thinks Grogu can't hear him, but he is always buzzing with noise. The man is the noisiest person Grogu has ever met, but he likes the sound of him a lot. He misses him so much it makes his chest hurt, even though he knows the pain isn't real. So he tries to think about him, the-man-who-is-named-father, and thinks about how shiny and warm he is. He's so shiny that he glitters in the dark—he would glitter even down here, Grogu thought, and that makes him happy._

_But it is hard to focus on up when there is so much below him. The dark makes him remember other things, things he doesn't want to think about; big, cold rooms where he is left alone for a long time, and just when he starts to wish for someone,_ _ **anyone**_ _to come into the room with him, cruel men with sharp things in their hands appear. They are not the people he wants to see, and he is upset with himself for making such a bad wish. As soon as they show up he wants them to go away, but they always stay for too long. Sometimes they make him fall asleep when they come into the room, and he likes that the best because then at least he can forget he is alone._

_The memories scare him. He doesn't want to think about them, because sometimes thinking about things made them true—he remembers this from Before, from the Jedi Masters in the Temple who told him he could see things that hadn't happened yet if he concentrated hard enough. And he never, ever wanted those things to be true again. They were bad things to think about, and if he thinks about them for too long he knows they will happen to him again. He doesn't want it to be his fault if he has to go back there, because that means someone will have to save him._

_And someone will come back for him eventually. The man always comes back, over and over, without fail. But Grogu doesn't want him to come back this time; he knows what will happen if he does. He has seen the man lying on the floor, his armour no longer shiny. He tried to stop it from happening, but he doesn't know if it worked or not. And he doesn't want to think about it; he doesn't want to make it come true. It will mean he is alone again, and he is so afraid of being alone._

_Grogu is still for a long time in this place and watches it grow darker. He knows there are others around him. Movements in the current that he has trouble seeing if he looks at them directly, but they always swim around the edges of his eyes. He knows he isn't alone, but they don't feel welcoming. They feel strong, and they feel like they want to talk to him, to ask him to follow them. He knows better than to listen. They only ever ask him to go down._

_He hangs in this place, not-alone, and tries to think only about things he wants to come true._

_~~_

_It is almost entirely black when he sees something again. He has slipped lower and lower, further and further below; by the time he figures out which way is up, it is too far away to get to. He's angry at himself for that, for not understanding sooner, but he doesn't want to be angry anymore. He just doesn't want to be alone._

_But he sees something, eventually—a something that is much closer than up. It glitters like it's underneath a big sun, and he wants to be there, too. It will be warmer than this place._

_Grogu wants to move, but it's hard. His body is cold, and the current this far below is very strong. He struggles towards the shimmer of light, the tiny seam that has made a crack in the dark. It looks familiar to him—it is filled with the things he had been thinking about earlier. The shaking walls of a ship, the warm presence of a meal. He sees himself too, so small on the floor, playing with things his father has long ago stopped chiding him for touching. He watches himself sleep, nestled comfortably on a lap; he sees the way his father removes parts of his shiny armour to make his arms and shoulders softer at night._

_They are memories that are not his own; they are more clear, more sharp and careful, viewed from behind the protective glass of a visor. They are full of warmth and colour and shape and form. He feels, too, what lay beneath them—doubt and caution, but not about him. About the man who feels them. He hears the familiar buzzing, the low rumble of noise that never goes away, because the man does not ever stop thinking until he is deeply asleep._

_He feels the swell of them, filling the below with warmth and light until there are no shadows and up is everywhere. He feels that he is no longer alone, and reaches for the glittering pucker of light in front of him. It looks exactly like the shiny form of the man who always comes back. He knew the man would glitter, even this far down._

_There is no way to speak here, so Grogu doesn't. Instead he thinks, and feels the man respond in turn, and tells him all the words he hasn't been able to hear until now. He tells him the word for father, and this time, he thinks the man finally understands._

* * *

They do not wake; they surface.

Din gasps as if there is not enough air in his lungs. The oxygen he draws in is heavy with moisture and the perpetual smell of petrichor. It is no longer the empty, easy thing he has always thought of it as. It is full of life and history—the air he breathes has been consumed by billions of others before him, and would be consumed by many more still. He would carry it in his lungs and eventually bring it elsewhere, seeding its atoms across the stars.

The act of settling back into his body is a brutal one, vibrating along his bones and disrupting every painful twinge, every injury, every abused nerve. He doesn't know what Luke had done when he'd pulled them both under, but Din finds himself starkly aware of his presence in the world now—how he is part of its fabric just as much as any other stone or reed or person. He is, too, present in himself in a way he never was before; or perhaps he had been, and is only just now realising it. He is here, and he is not alone.

Grogu doesn't make a sound, but his eyes open, and finds that he is in a place that looks nothing like the big hallway. It is wet and alive and older than any place he has been to before, maybe even older than the henge on Tython. He knows he is safe here; the trees tell him so.

There is a man above him. He is not familiar for a moment, but then he is—then he is the most familiar person he's ever known. His face is no longer shiny, no longer cut with the sharp and black visor that makes his voice echo, but he knows it's okay now, that this time it isn't like the hallway. Grogu knows this man; he is the man who always comes back. He is the man who finally knows the same word for father as he does.

Din looks down, attention drawn to the squirming warmth in his hands, and finds the kid there. The sight of him sends another tremor through his body—he is that little spark Din saw in the dark below, now given form. His skin is still pale and bruised, but he is awake and alive, struggling desperately to free himself from the swaddling of the filthy cloak he'd been wrapped in.

Din's hands tremble as he pulls back the fabric. The kid is staring up at him with a desperate, earnest look on his face, like he cannot reach for him quickly enough.

"Hey, buddy," the man whispers, but he does not say it like he did before, in the hallway—he doesn't say it like it's a goodbye. He says it like he always does, like it's the morning and he is still not fully awake and they are back inside the ship whose walls shake when the engines turn on.

He helps get one of Grogu's hands free, and then holds him up close to his face—the face that is no longer shiny, but it is still his face. This place is cold, and his father is very warm.

The kid's skin is soft and warm when he presses his forehead against him, and feels his entire body wrack at the contact. Tiny claws press gently against his cheek, running curiously over the errant stubble along his jaw. His face breaks into a smile as a sob escapes him—the kid is alive and safe, and he's already managed to get distracted.

"Hey, kid," he manages to rasp out, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He'd been worried that the kid wouldn't recognise him, that he would look too different, but now he realises how wrong he'd been. The kid knows him, has always known him, and he can _feel_ that recognition as easily and readily as if the kid were a limb outside of himself, its blooming warmth swelling in the centre of his small, sturdy little body.

"It's okay," he whispers, and feels himself crumble because he means it this time. "You're okay now."

The trees above him tremble because his father is shaking. He is crying, but he is also happy. His register in the Force glitters like his armour does, and it is bursting with familiar colours. Grogu presses himself closer—his father's face has so many textures now, bristling and pliant and soft and hard. He is warm like the fabric underneath his armour, and Grogu doesn't want to be away from that warmth ever again. He thinks about it very hard, so that it will come true. He thinks about it so hard his father can hear it—

They hear each other, and they are not alone. They will never be alone again.

* * *

Luke drew back into himself slowly. Around him, he felt the marshlands slide back into place, as if he'd been riding a train that had stopped suddenly in its tracks. The impact was one he was used to by now, but it still took his breath away.

When his eyes opened, he found the person he'd dragged under with him on the other side of the small stone dais. The Mandalorian was sitting on the ground now, legs loosely crossed, and his head was bowed as he stared, enraptured and adoring, at the little boy in his arms. There was a small smile on his face, and he was speaking softly, so softly that Luke only heard enough to know he wasn't familiar with the language the man spoke.

The child's register in the Force was no longer duplicated as it had been before; it was instead connected by a web so intricate and binding it was difficult to separate it from his father's. The Mandalorian's own register was far more muted, tones of iron and soft russet, carefully guarded and contained. They felt almost merged now, linked beyond anything Luke had ever felt before. It nearly staggered him; the air was thick with the joy of their reunion, and the spirits that dwelt between the trees seemed to almost weep from its intensity.

Luke rolled back, off his knees, catching his breath and bracing a palm on the ground as he looked around the clearing. They had an audience; he saw the shimmering hooded figures of spirits, some he recognised and many he didn't, standing in silent, exuberant attendance. He wondered then what he'd done—what he'd _truly_ done—to warrant such a response. The ghosts on Dagobah never gathered together like this, not that he'd seen.

More immediate, pressing matters began to intrude. He heard the beginnings of rain patter on the thick canopy above them, and knew they would need to move. Looking back at the Mandalorian, he saw that the man was whispering softly to the child, rocking faintly. The both of them were still covered in blood, weak and weary from whatever had happened on the cruiser. His job was not yet complete; he needed to find them a proper place to rest.

Luke stood, wiping wet grass from the pants of his flight suit, and walked over to the man. He placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, in the space between his head and pauldron, and spoke softly. "Are you alright?"

The Mandalorian flinched slightly, and looked up at him. He seemed dazed, and struggled to gather himself enough to respond. "It's done?" he said finally, palm pressing against the child. "He's—he's alright?"

Luke nodded. "Yes."

The exhale he let out sounded like a sob. "Thank you."

"Of course." In truth, Luke had barely done anything, merely guiding the Mandalorian to drift in the Force and its vast current. The man had done all the rest—Grogu had drawn towards him almost instantaneously, his register resolving into the warm and solid shape his father had formed of him in his mind.

The Mandalorian looked back down at the child, silent again for a long moment. Luke felt the tension in his body slacken from the hand still on his shoulder, and he let out a shaky breath. When he didn't speak, Luke smiled faintly.

"We have to go," he urged, knowing that if he let him, the man would sit here with his boy forever. "The child needs rest—you both do."

It was his turn to nod. "Okay," the Mandalorian whispered, swallowing. "I need—I need help up."

Despite his bulk, the Mandalorian was easy enough to assist. He stood slowly, painfully, on unsteady feet, and Luke kept a hand on his arm as he glanced around, looking for the path that would lead them to the hut he'd built for him and Leia when they'd come here to train. It was a few years old by now, and he hoped it was still standing. It would be a little awkward if it wasn't.

The ghosts began to fade back into the forest, dissolving into wisps. He wondered if the Mandalorian could even see them; he was about as Force-sensitive as the strange armour he wore, but the bond with his child had done something to his register. It was more present now, its form more clearly defined.

A conversation for when the man wasn't swaying on his feet, Luke decided.

"This way," he said then, spotting the tell-tale divot in the grass that marked the old trail he and his sister had used.

"Hold on." The Mandalorian's grip on his arm tightened, and Luke turned to look back at him. The man was staring down at his helmet, as if weighing something in his mind. It gave him pause.

"I can carry it for you," Luke offered, his voice nearly a whisper. He didn't ask why he couldn't simply put it back on.

The Mandalorian said nothing for a long moment, only breathing. The expression on his face was unreadable. Finally, he said, "alright."

Luke made sure the man was steady before bending down to grab his helmet, along with his gloves. Both were filthy, covered in grime and blood like the rest of his armour was. He knew he had a change of clothes in the cabin—hopefully they would fit the Mandalorian.

"I have lodging," Luke found himself saying, and they finally began to move. "It's not far. You'll both be safe there."

The Mandalorian said nothing. Instead he followed Luke, his grip on his arm constant, like he'd sink back into the current of the Force without the contact anchoring him.

* * *

Din stood unsteadily in the middle of Luke's cabin, only dimly aware of the man moving around him.

"Bunks are good," Luke was muttering, patting the two cots that sat opposite one another in the back half of the hut. "Roof's good—I think." He looked back at him. "You need clothes."

Din nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement. His eyes kept drawing down to the kid, reassuring himself he was still there—still alive and safe. The grime and blood on his jumper must be uncomfortable, he thought. Din mustered the energy to say, "the kid first."

Luke had gone to the narrow cabinet at the back wall, and looked over his shoulder. He frowned. "Right. Probably have a blanket…."

Across from the entrance to the cabin was a table with two chairs, serving both as a countertop and a place to eat. Din grabbed the backrest of one of them, testing its stability with a weary shake of his hand, and then sat down heavily when he confirmed the chair was stable.

Luke's cabin was little more than a dry place to sleep. The roof had a waterproof tarp covering it outside to keep the rain out, and its rough walls were built around a crude fireplace in the centre of the far wall. The right side of the cabin contained two narrow cots and a cabinet for storage, and the left side housed the table Din sat at, along with a few spare shelves for storage. As long as he was able to sleep, he wasn't going to complain about the accommodations.

"Let me," Luke said, suddenly in front of him, hand extended for the kid. Din frowned, slow to register, before realising he was going to dress the kid. With a nod he passed the baby to him, and watched Luke move over to set the kid on the table as he began the process of undoing his jumper.

"You should take that off," Luke said to him as he pulled the kid out of his robe, wincing as flakes of dried blood fluttered down onto the table. "You look about the same size as me—I have a set of clean clothes that should fit you."

Luke had set his helmet and gloves on top of the cabinet, and Din looked over at them, staring at his visor. His throat tightened. He knew he should be reacting more strongly to this, that he should feel something other than a deep, weary numbness, but the rush of panic and terror that had flooded his system when he'd removed his helmet on Morak didn't come to him now.

"I know," he found himself saying. He needed to remove his armour anyway, to clean it. It made sense to take it off.

When he didn't move, Luke looked up from the kid, his brow pinched in concern. "I can help you."

There was that gravity again, a weight to the man's words that belied the youth still clinging to his features. It was like he understood in some way that this wasn't just a process of removal—that it was a ritual unto itself, marking an irrevocable point in his life that he could never come back from.

Din looked up at him, tired, his mouth twitching. "I'll probably need it," he whispered.

* * *

The Mandalorian's armour was in poor shape. The frame of it was intact, but it was so caked with gore that the buckles and latches that fused it to his gambeson were difficult to unfasten.

Luke did his best anyway. Grogu had been taken care of, now sitting swaddled in a clean blanket on the table. Tomorrow he would wash the baby's jumper so that he would have proper clothes again, but the child didn't seem that bothered by it. All he was concerned with was his father; his eyes were glued to the Mandalorian, watching with a laser focus intensity that made his little body go still.

"Over there," the Mandalorian said, making Luke look up from the buckle of his cuirass. He was pointing to the space between the table and fireplace. "Put—put all of it there."

"Of course." He frowned as he wrenched the buckle free, and the cuirass detached from his bodysuit.

"My helmet and gloves, as well. And my weapons."

His tone brooked no argument, but they weren't the iron words of a man giving orders; they sounded like a dying wish. Luke could only nod.

"Sure. They'll need to be washed—"

"I'll do it," he interrupted. "After… after."

Luke didn't argue with him. Instead he helped him remove the rest of his steel armour, and then loosened the strings for his gambeson. The process took a while—it was not something that could be taken off easily or frequently. Luke wondered if he'd ever done it before.

When the Mandalorian stood in nothing more than his bodysuit, Luke stepped away. "Can you dress yourself?" he asked, glad that the words didn't come out awkward. He would help him if he couldn't, of course, but—

"Yes," the man said tiredly, and looked back at Grogu on the table beside the fresh set of clothes Luke had laid out, cloaked in a blanket that was far too large for him. His expression softened. "Feel better?" he asked the child, who cooed in response.

Feeling very much like a third wheel, Luke cleared his throat. "I'll tuck the baby in and prep the beds," he said, reaching for him. "You can—get changed."

Sobering, the Mandalorian nodded. Luke grabbed the kid gingerly from the table and turned away, walking over to the bunk that Leia had slept in years before.

"It's a tight squeeze," he whispered to the kid, placing him on one side of the small pillow. "You'll have to snuggle up to make room for your dad."

Luke hadn't been around a ton of babies, but this one was remarkably calm. Grogu settled on the bed without anything more than a little sigh, his eyes still latched onto the Mandalorian, now on the other side of the cabin. Making a habit of keeping his back turned, Luke studied the kid in more detail. He'd seen a troubling amount of bruises on his body while changing him, the majority of them along places where major veins would be. Luke wanted to ask what had happened, and he would when they were both rested, but he had a pretty good idea.

"While you rest," Luke began, still not looking at the Mandalorian. "I'll find something to eat." Grogu also looked troublingly undernourished, something the Force alone could not remedy. He knew of past Jedi that had subsisted on little more than their connection to the Force, but it took years to acquire such a skill, and it was not something a baby could achieve, even one as gifted as Grogu.

"Thank you," the Mandalorian said again. The words came out heavy, more than simple courtesy. _It's nothing,_ Luke wanted to tell him, because it was the truth—doing anything less would be unacceptable.

He said nothing instead, letting the gratitude hang, unable to think of what to say. Luke didn't know this man, but he knew the mark of a person unused to kindness. He'd work on a proper response while they slept, he decided.

"I'm done," the man said, and he turned to see him now clothed in a spare pair of plain pants and an undershirt, which fit him surprisingly well. With weary movements, he folded up his filthy gambeson and the rest of his bodysuit neatly, placing it on the ground beside his armour and boots with a deep reverence that confirmed what Luke already suspected—that it was not just a suit of armour.

"Good. You can sleep there," Luke said, nodding to the bunk where he'd put Grogu. "It's not much, but…."

"It's more than enough," the Mandalorian whispered.

Luke helped him get into bed. The baby immediately tucked himself into his father's side without any prompting, as if this was their usual nightly routine. The harsh pinch in the Mandalorian's brow hadn't relaxed—the man still seemed to be in a great deal of pain. But he settled into the narrow cot and let out a deep sigh, as if he'd been holding in his breath the entire time, and curled his arm protectively around the baby. There was something curled loosely in one of his hands—a tiny metal ball, which he offered to Grogu. The baby took it, claws clicking against the surface, and tucked it into his blanket as if for safekeeping.

Luke pulled away from the bed when he felt a hand on his arm, and he looked down to meet the Mandalorian's eyes. They were dark and unreadable, and he was unable to look away.

"Thank you," he said once more, and this time Luke wasn't able to ignore it.

"It's my duty as a Jedi," he replied. It was the closest thing to the truth that he could think of.


	2. Duty, And Other Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super big thank you once again for all the wonderful comments and feedback I've gotten on this series! I'm gonna try to respond to everyone but it will be slow going, so apologies for that. Thanks again for reading!

The hair on the back of Luke's neck stood on end as he curled his fingers into a tight fist in the air. Several metres away, the narrow, arrow-like head of a bogwing snapped in an unnatural direction before falling dead to the ground with a weak splash of shallow, muddy water. The creature's companions flew off in a panic at its untimely death, their wings flapping with effort as they darted through the trees to safety.

Luke could feel eyes on him. He hadn't asked for company during his hunt, but he'd never known ghosts to be considerate about that sort of thing. Ignoring his audience, he stepped carefully through the marsh and retrieved his newest kill. Dagobah had an abundance of animals that were all theoretically edible, but most of them could only be stomached when reduced to a thick broth.

He tied the animal to his belt and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. His flight suit was cumbersome, and the bright, hazard orange gave him away easily in the forest, so he'd swapped it out for plain pants and an undershirt. It was afternoon now, which meant the humidity in the air had cooled, and it settled on his clothes and skin in a thick, dewy film.

Luke closed his eyes and listened. He wasn't used to hunting in forests, especially not ones so enigmatic and unwelcoming as Dagobah's endless marshlands. The creatures in the trees all made too much noise, and the intense thrum of this planet made it difficult to separate the individual pulses of life and light the animals gave off from the broader current of the Force.

"You didn't thank it," he heard softly behind him, startling him from his thoughts. Luke turned, hand going to the hilt of his saber, to find Obi-Wan's shimmering form watching him with a disapproving look.

Luke sighed, relaxing, and let his hand drop from his belt. "I figured you would do it for me," he said dryly. He hadn't spoken to the man in a while; he thought it was fitting that their conversation would begin with a chastisement.

Obi-Wan gave a brief chuckle. "You sound like your father."

Luke ignored that and turned away, continuing through the swamp. He knew Obi-Wan would follow him. He'd appeared for a reason—he always had a reason, and Luke didn't need to think about it for very long to figure out what that reason might be.

His unwanted companion was silent for much of his hunt, and it made him feel a little guilty for dismissing the man so quickly. He knew they needed to talk about a lot of things, and none of them were easy subjects. And despite everything else, he knew that Obi-Wan meant well; that he wanted to help Luke find answers to questions he barely knew how to ask himself. He just wished Obi-Wan would be less bullheaded about it.

A few hours' hunt produced several bogwings and a pouch full of flora that would serve as the closest thing to flavouring as one could get on this planet. The Mandalorian never complained about the food, and Luke wasn't sure if that was out of politeness or restraint, but he was certain the man was sick of subsisting on foul, gamey soups. He definitely was.

He was in the process of finding one of the trail markers he'd set down, intending to head back to the cabin, when Obi-Wan finally decided to speak again. His tone was gentler this time—encouraging as opposed to prying. "You've been here longer than I expected."

"Three days," Luke said with a shrug, taking care to plant his feet firmly on the ground before each step. If it wasn't roots and weeds trying to trip him up, it was sticky mud and old burrows. He hadn't managed to break his ankle walking the trails yet, but he wasn't about to test his luck.

"The child is healing well," Obi-Wan mused, following along effortlessly. He stepped through the forest as Luke did, but he knew that was just for show. "His father, less so."

"Yes." He grabbed onto a tree branch and stepped over a particularly thick root. "He was badly hurt."

The Mandalorian had told Luke some of what had happened to him, though only after repeated, insistent prodding. He'd told him about being fatally injured during a fight on the Imperial cruiser, and that the child had saved his life. But the man was a poor storyteller, and didn't take kindly to requests for further details.

"He is a difficult man to read," Obi-Wan murmured, as if divining his thoughts.

"Yeah," Luke agreed, a bit surprised, and stopped to look at him. "I know he's troubled."

Obi-Wan smiled. "As you are."

Luke snorted. "Everyone is these days."

"But you have more cause for it than most," Obi-Wan said. It was his version of a compliment. "I know you want to train the child."

Luke continued walking. He'd spotted one of his trail markers, a tiny perimeter light that he'd borrowed from a rebel storage room, and passed it with a relieved sigh. If he concentrated hard enough he could probably make his way back to the cabin without any guides, but he didn't want to risk it.

"I don't know," he said eventually, after a long stretch of silence. "He's gifted."

"He is."

"You saw what happened?" Luke glanced at Obi-Wan beside him. "You know what he did?"

"Yes. I saw what you did, as well."

Luke shrugged off the comment, his face flushing slightly at the admiration in Obi-Wan's voice. "At the dais? It was mostly—mostly the Mandalorian." He sighed. "He won't even tell me his name."

"He seems to trust you."

"Well, I saved his life." Luke stepped up onto a network of overlapping roots, balancing carefully as they took him over what he knew to be a deceptively shallowing-looking puddle. "He doesn't have much choice."

"You saved his child's life, as well. Do not discount that." Obi-Wan watched him jump from one root to another in bemusement. "In my experience, Mandalorians do not trust easily. Helping them protect their children is a good way to get around that."

"You knew many Mandalorians?"

The man's mouth twitched. "A few," he admitted. "But we're getting off topic."

Luke slid back down to the ground, batting away the fine, hairy branches that hung from the tree. His landing splashed water everywhere, spraying some in Obi-Wan's direction, who pulled his cloak around him in an entirely unnecessary display of disapproval.

"The topic is…" Luke sighed, wondering how long he could stall. "The kid."

Obi-Wan nodded. "An extraordinary boy."

"He healed his father. I saw the wound." He'd helped the Mandalorian treat it with poultices. It was closed, thankfully, but the surface of his skin had been an angry, inflamed mess of fresh scar tissue. "He would've died."

Luke wondered if the Mandalorian actually _had_ died, if only for a brief period. If the child had succeeded in the same task that had driven his own father to darkness.

"I've heard of such things happening before, but never seen it myself," Obi-Wan murmured. "Not even the Healers at the Temple could perform such feats—not to my knowledge."

Luke wanted to be relieved at that, but it just made him more uncertain. If a man as learned and accomplished as Obi-Wan was unfamiliar with the child's abilities, what hope did Luke possibly have?

"He's bound to the Mandalorian now," Luke said. "I don't know what that means for him."

"It means they are forever connected to one another."

"All things are connected."

"Yes," Obi-Wan conceded. "But this is something more. It is stronger even than the bond between Master and Padawan. I know you've felt it."

He frowned, spotting the flicker of another marker to his right. "I have. But the Mandalorian is not a Jedi."

"And he will not become one. But the question remains—will the boy be trained?"

That was exactly Luke's question. He wanted Obi-Wan to tell him the answer, though he knew the man didn't have one. And even if he did, this was not the sort of thing Obi-Wan could decide for him.

He was quiet for a while, and Obi-Wan didn't intrude. They walked silently with one another through the forest, each in their own thoughts. Luke had travelled far today, several miles from his lodging. It had been a few years at least since he'd last come to Dagobah, and he was glad to find the small cabin he'd built for him and Leia to stay in during training was still intact. It served as little more than a dry place to sleep, but that was all the Mandalorian and the child had been doing since they'd arrived here. That meant Luke had little more than himself for company most of the time—and, of course, nosy ghosts. But he was fine with that. He needed time to think.

When he came open the final marker, he stopped. Obi-Wan paused beside him, watching him curiously but still not saying anything. Luke kept his eyes to the ground, watching water gliders skim across the water that had collected in the tracks he'd made when he'd begun his hunt.

"This is… different from the other Force-sensitives I've found," Luke said finally. "Grogu already has training from other Jedi. And his bond with his father… they would have to stay at the new Temple together."

He wondered briefly what would happen to them, should they be separated. To be bonded so closely in the Force as they were, only to be ripped apart. They hadn't left one another's side in three days, and Luke knew it wasn't just because they were healing.

Obi-Wan seemed to sense his unease. "I don't envy your position."

"What would you do, if you were in it?"

The man raised a brow. "I have been. I made the wrong decision."

Luke frowned. "With… with my father?"

"Yes. It was a mistake to take Anakin from his mother. I could have gone back to Tatooine, to bring her to the Temple and kept her from harm. I could have found her safer lodging elsewhere. I could have allowed Anakin to visit her, and hidden it from the Council. But I didn't."

"I'm not doing that this time," Luke told him. "Whoever I train—they'll be able to see their families."

Obi-Wan's mouth thinned as his lips pressed together. "It is a dangerous gamble—"

"You just said it was a mistake."

"I did. But the alternatives are not without their consequences." He folded his hands into his robes. "The child could be more powerful than any Jedi I've ever known; greater even than Anakin or Master Yoda. That means the price of failure is…." He looked away from Luke, out into the swamp. He did not speak for a moment. "It is significant."

"I don't even think he wants training," Luke said then. "The call he gave on Tython—it didn't make sense to me at first. All I saw was the Mandalorian. I thought—" He paused and let out a short laugh. "I thought it was a warning from the Force. I haven't had much luck with Mandalorians."

Obi-Wan looked back at him, now amused. "Indeed."

"But I understand it now. Or I think I do, anyway."

"It will be more difficult to rebuild without the boy," Obi-Wan said quietly. "Significantly so."

"I know that." He let out a deep breath. "And I haven't made a final decision yet."

"How long will you stay here?"

"As long as it takes for the both of them to heal," he replied, nodding towards the direction of the cabin. It was only a short walk from where he stood.

"Then you have time," Obi-Wan assured him, smiling softly.

* * *

To his surprise, the Mandalorian was awake and sitting up on the edge of his mattress when Luke ducked into the cabin. He gave only a brief glance towards the door in welcome, saying nothing.

"How is he?" Luke asked, undeterred, scraping his shoes on the bristle brush by the door. It was how all of their conversations began, brief and sporadic as they were.

The child was in the Mandalorian's lap, also awake, carefully being given small sips of soup by his father. Grogu wasn't strong enough yet to hold up a bowl by himself, so he needed assistance to eat—and he was very particular about who should help feed him.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat. "Good," he said quietly. "He's eating more today."

"You've been up long?" He moved over to the lone counter across from the door that constituted the kitchen, setting his spoils down on the rough wooden surface. It would probably do them for a few meals, he thought. Maybe he wouldn't have to hunt tomorrow. He needed to gut and dry what he'd caught, but it could wait until morning.

"In and out," the Mandalorian replied.

The cabin was quiet as Luke unpacked for the day, disrupted only by the soft noise of his movements and the occasional, contented _ah_ the kid gave after downing a mouthful of soup.

The Mandalorian's armour was still piled up where it normally was as Luke moved towards his bunk, but its newfound sheen caught his eye, and he paused to look at it. "You cleaned your gear," he observed, and tilted his head slightly to watch the steel sparkle in the yellow lantern light. Luke had offered to clean it for him again—it wasn't like he was doing much else—but he had been met only with vehement refusal.

"Some of it," the man said, looking over at it with a dissatisfied frown. "It still needs a proper scrub."

"I meant—" Luke sat down on his own bunk with a huff, which sat opposite to the Mandalorian's. "You didn't strain yourself, did you?"

The man held the bowl of soup away from the baby and looked up at Luke. "It needed to be done," he replied, making Luke frown.

"Do you ever give straight answers?"

The comment took the Mandalorian aback; at first Luke thought it might have offended him, but then his mouth twitched into a faint smile. "When I want to," he said quietly.

The baby whined for more food and grabbed at the bowl. His movements were still weak, but he was more animated than he had been yesterday. The Mandalorian murmured something in a language Luke didn't know, his tone soft and chiding, before tipping the bowl back down for the baby to sip at it.

"He's gained weight," Luke mused, kicking off his boots and lying back on his cot, pulling his feet up with a relieved sigh at finally being able to sit down.

"His colour is coming back, too," the Mandalorian said. It was a rare, unprompted offer of information. Luke noticed that he always spoke more when the topic was about the child.

There were other things that he noticed, too. That the Mandalorian rarely maintained eye contact during conversation; that he flinched whenever Luke came inside, like he'd been caught in the middle of a private affair; that he'd stare for long periods of time at his armour. The second day they were here, Luke had woken in the middle of the night to find the Mandalorian sitting on the edge of his cot, holding his helmet in his hands, dark eyes scanning the visor as if there was something hidden written on its surface.

His connection with Grogu made it even easier to sense his emotions, but Luke still found it difficult to understand what they meant. Deeply empathetic to the terror of a personal identity crisis, Luke hadn't intruded, despite how curious he was. But maybe that was the wrong tact; the edges of the Mandalorian's register were messy and uneven, like a piece of cloth that had been suddenly ripped from its bolt.

Luke's eyes flicked back to the armour piled up in the corner as the Mandalorian turned his attention back to the baby, feeding him the last few mouthfuls of food. He didn't know much about Mandalorians. He knew they were fierce warriors, and that being hunted by one wasn't much fun. He knew they cared for their armour a great deal—and, if Obi-Wan was to be believed, they were deeply protective of their children.

That seemed to all check out, but he knew that wasn't the whole of it. There was something else. He remembered the first night they were here, when he'd helped the man remove his armour. He remembered how the man had spoken to him—quietly and gravely, as if he were dying.

"You said…" Luke began, settling more comfortably in his cot and staring up at the low ceiling. "You said that you couldn't put your helmet back on."

He was met with silence. He wanted to look over at the man, but decided against it. If he didn't want to talk about this, he would let Luke know—usually he would just roll over and go to sleep if he wasn't interested in talking. It initially reminded him of Han, who would sometimes do the same thing when he was in a particularly foul mood, but this didn't feel like that. The Mandalorian wasn't being rude, or at least not intentionally. He just liked being quiet.

Luke let the comment hang, trying not to feel too awkward, and watched as the Mandalorian stood up from his cot. His movements were stiff and deliberate, each use of every muscle carefully planned so as to avoid hurting himself. He let out a strained hiss of breath as he straightened to his full height, and limped slowly over to the counter to set the now-empty soup bowl down. The child stayed in his arms, tucked into the man's side as if the shallow hollow between his ribs and hip were carved out just for him.

The Mandalorian paused at the counter, looking over at the small, narrow fireplace beside it, where their miserable pot of soup hung. He seemed to be catching his breath from the exertion of his short walk, as well as gathering his thoughts.

"I can't," he said finally, his voice rough, as if he'd gone hoarse from shouting.

"Why?"

"Once it's removed, I can't put it back on again."

Luke sat up, leaning on a fist on the bed, incredulous. "Because of—of what happened at the dais? You did it to save—"

"I know why I did it," he interrupted, his tone forceful now. He still didn't look at Luke. "And it was before that. It was removed by someone else—in battle."

"On the cruiser?"

"Yes."

Luke glanced back at the set of armour. The Mandalorian looked so much smaller out of it. "What does that mean?" he asked after a moment. "You aren't a Mandalorian anymore?"

His head finally snapped in Luke's direction. He could see the anger on the man's face, plain and open. A muscle in his jaw twitched, like he was going to say something, and then his eyes cast to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Luke found himself saying. "We don't have to—I won't bring it up again if you don't want to talk about it."

The Mandalorian's throat worked. The uneven light of the fireplace and the sparse lanterns hung about the cabin cast his face in stark shadow, and his eyes looked nearly black. For a man so closed off, it was surprising to see how openly he allowed his emotions to scrawl across his face. The pain in his features was almost too raw to bear looking at.

The Mandalorian nodded then, face resolving into a look of steel, and moved back towards his cot, using the table for support as he did so. Luke laid back down on his own bed, giving him the leg room to make his way over.

They did not speak again that night. The Mandalorian stayed in his cot, his back turned away, his body curled protectively around the child. Luke didn't even try to talk to him, knowing he wouldn't get a response. Instead, he resigned himself to sleep, too tired to eat, and dreamt uneasily.

* * *

The room was cold when he woke.

Din opened his eyes and found a slatted wooden wall in front of him. By now he'd gotten over the disorientation of not waking in his own bunk; the wet, marshy smell that greeted him each morning was slowly becoming familiar.

He took a deep breath, as he did whenever he woke, and waited to see how his body responded. His ribs ached, a pain he knew wouldn't go away for a few months at least. The wound in his abdomen also flared at the movement; he needed to change the poultice Luke had helped him pack around it. It was painful, but not unmanageably so.

With a groan he rolled onto his back, looking up at the rafters. Weak, grey light filtered through the cracks. If it was dawn, it was still early in the sun's rising. His sleep pattern was erratic, his wounds dragging him from even the deepest of slumbers to demand his attention. This morning, it was hunger that woke him, and he counted that as a good sign. He hadn't felt properly hungry in a while.

There was a rustle of movement beside him, and when he flexed his hand, he found the solid warmth of the kid beneath it. With a soft smile, he looked down and pulled the blanket up, and saw the kid, still bleary with sleep, attempting to nestle more closely against him. He looked immensely grumpy at the disturbance, and let out an annoyed huff when he curled back up on the bed.

"Sorry," Din murmured, letting the blanket drop back down. He rubbed at his face with a sigh, trying to dispel the persistent grogginess that never seemed to fully go away. Stubble rasped against his palm; old sweat, too. Luke might have given him fresh clothes to wear, but he still needed to wash.

Din sighed again, head pressing deeper into the pillow. He should get up. He'd decided last night that he would go outside today, and for longer than just to relieve himself. He wanted to walk; he wanted to find a place where he could wash, and sit with the kid. This was the fourth morning they'd been on Dagobah, and he'd spent most of that time lying in this narrow bunk.

Slowly, he began the process of sitting up. The start-up pain was always the worst; he'd felt worse with each passing day, but he knew that would eventually fade. His body was angry with him right now, throbbing and aching and wincing from the abuse it had endured.

The kid grumbled again at this disturbance, having now been dislodged from his secure burrow of blankets, and blinked heavily when Din pulled him up from the bed and tucked him into his arm.

"Morning," he whispered, offering the kid one of his fingers. He reached out for it automatically, as if in habit, and wrapped his tiny claws around it as he blinked awake. The kid's grip strength was slowly returning; he was able to squeeze and hold his fingers around one of Din's own.

He glanced over at Luke's cot as he gathered the willpower to stand. The man was still sleeping, an arm thrown over his eyes. He must be used to sleeping in bright places, Din thought, and Dagobah certainly didn't qualify.

He got up carefully. He'd managed to do so dozens of times before, but with each instance he discovered some new twinge. Right now his left ankle was throbbing at him, and the base of his spine was upset with the strain. His hand still hurt, too, the joints swollen and aching. Din stood anyway, stretching to his full height, and counted it as a small triumph that his head wasn't swimming from the movement.

The kid shifted in his arms, cooing softly as he woke. Turning, he looked back at the bunk and found the little silver ball resting in the middle of the mattress. It seemed to disappear and reappear at random, and only the kid was able to keep track of its location. Din grabbed it and tucked it into a pocket for safekeeping. And then, with a wince, he began to make his way over to the table set up beside the small fireplace, grabbing a match and alighting the kindling still present beneath the pot.

It was slow going, and he had to pause once to catch his breath, but he managed to heat up and dish out two bowls of soup—one for him and one for the kid. Juggling breakfast and a baby, he made his way to the door.

The air outside the cabin was significantly cooler, sending a shiver through him. With a wince he sat down at the small, rickety iron table that was stationed just outside the door, and relaxed against one of the chairs with a sigh.

"You hungry?" he asked the kid as he set him and the bowls down, though he already knew the answer, and not just because the kid was almost always hungry. He could feel it in the back of his mind, faint but present. It was a phantom impression of a need that was not his own. The bizarre, dual dreams he'd had on the way to this planet hadn't surfaced again, but what came in their wake was a much subtler, ever-present kind of intuition about the kid.

Din stared down at him in his lap, meeting his large, dark eyes, and thought he finally understood what Ahsoka meant when she told him the kid could understand him. Not his words necessarily—at least, not all of them—but something else, something deeper. Was this what the kid had felt this entire time? Was that how Jedi seemed to know things they had no business knowing?

The kid was still sleepy, and seemed content to simply be held as Din watched him. He grabbed the smaller of the bowls off the table and offered it to the kid, who perked up only enough to accept a small sip of broth. He would ask Luke to look out for anything particularly fatty or protein-rich on his hunts; the kid was regaining his previous baby chub and dense centre mass, but he still looked too skinny and frail.

"How you feeling, hey?" he whispered, feeding the kid more sips. Whatever went on inside his little head was still a mystery to Din, but he seemed more or less like his normal, happy self. The kid was remarkably resilient, in spite of everything that had happened. It made his chest ache just to watch him, nestled back against his arm and acting as if this was just any other morning.

He looked out at the forest surrounding the hut, watching as morning fog began to curl off the endless puddles that dotted the ground. The sun was slowly rising, casting weak, grey-green light through the thick overhead canopy. He still couldn't sense whatever Luke had asked him about; all he saw and felt and heard was the marshy forests around them.

That was probably a good thing, he decided. If the ritual at the dais was any indication of how Jedi perceived the world, he wanted no part of it. Reality was overwhelming enough as it was without being aware of the fabric of the universe.

He felt a tug on his shirt and looked down at the kid, who was staring at him expectantly. "Sorry," he muttered, turning his attention back to feeding him.

Once the kid was finished with his breakfast, Din inhaled his own meal. The taste was one he'd gotten used to, though he was growing tired of soup every day. He supposed that was a good thing, too, in a way; his strength was returning, and with it, the energy to have an opinion about something, even a subject as banal as breakfast.

Despite the kid's extraordinary healing abilities, almost dying had kicked the shit out of him. It wasn't the first time he'd been badly injured, but this one was definitely the worst. He'd done little more than sleep since they'd arrived, and even after three days of solid rest he still felt shaky and unsure of himself. He knew it would take time, but he still disliked how exposed he felt.

And then there was his armour.

He felt at the collar of his shirt, where the faint indentation of his mythosaur necklace pressed against the fabric. This was the longest he'd ever been out of his _beskar'gam_ since he was a boy. It felt like losing a limb; its absence weighed heavily on his body, which moved as if he still wore it. His gait accommodated for thick boots that were no longer there, and his arms hung at his sides to make room for phantom vambraces and faulds. The sensation of air on the back of his neck felt like the breath of an unseen foe, and the light from the sun—weak and filtered as it was—struck his eyes without the protective shield of his visor. His entire body was a single, exposed nerve, ready to be sliced open by the sharp and jagged edges of the world.

He would have to get used to it, he knew. The hollow numbness he felt still lingered, but it was slowly replacing itself with something far more difficult to contend with—a profound sense of loss. He could feel the vast swell of it approaching slowly, and he didn't know when it would hit him.

Din had watched a member of his covert once, wracked with grief, come to grips with the same thing that was slowly building in his chest. He'd been much younger when it had happened, and he remembered deciding then and there that he would rather die than work through that sort of pain.

There was another tug on his shirt, followed by an anxious coo. Flinching away from his own thoughts, he looked down at the kid; his eyes were wide and upset, and he let out another whine.

"It's okay," Din assured him quickly, and tucked him against his shoulder. He pressed his cheek to the kid's soft, fuzzy head, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. "You're okay."

There was an insistent nudge inside his mind. He knew it was the kid again—he didn't form words, but soft and simple impressions took their place, telling Din in no uncertain terms that he didn't want him to be upset.

He smiled. " _I'm_ okay," he whispered then, correcting himself, and felt his throat tighten. He didn't know if he believed that, but he certainly wanted the kid to.

After a moment, Din felt the kid's body go lax against his shoulder, letting out a little sigh. It should bother him that the kid could so easily glean his emotions now, but deep down he knew that had always been the case, right from the moment they met. He'd just never been able to hear him until now.

Din sat with the kid for a while, watching the sun move through the trees as dawn properly broke. Speckles of sunlight struck the bare skin of his face, and he determined that it wasn't the worst sensation in the world.

* * *

He must have drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, because he was nudged back into consciousness from the kid struggling in his arms. Din sat up in the chair, wincing at the sudden movement, and looked down at the kid, slightly alarmed. "What is it?"

A tiny hand was extended outwards, grasping for something out of reach, and Din looked up to see the kid pointing at a small, frog-like animal crouched in a sun-warmed puddle, its filmy eyes narrowed to slits in contentment.

"I just fed you," he murmured, knowing that didn't matter in the slightest. When the kid's face began to scrunch in effort, Din cupped a palm around his outstretched hand, making the kid look up at him. "Don't do that. You aren't strong enough yet." He glanced back up at the frog and let out a sigh. "I'll get it for you."

Setting the kid down gingerly on the table, he slipped quietly back into the cabin. Luke was still asleep, so Din made his way over to his armour and grabbed his pistol. He was about to go back outside when he paused, frowning down at it. The frog was small enough that it would probably explode into pieces if he shot it. With a sigh he tucked it back into its holster and retrieved his knife instead.

The frog was still dozing in the puddle when he came back out, and the kid was watching it intently. He had his arm raised up again, like he was about to make the thing float in the air, and Din hurriedly grabbed his hand to stop him.

"What did I just say?"

The kid looked up at him, letting out a full-on whine this time, but Din was prepared for his doey-eyed pleading expression.

"I'm going to make a deal with you," he told the kid soberly, kneeling down in front of him and keeping a hold of his hand. "You don't use your powers until you feel better, and I won't… be sad all the time." He winced. That didn't sound right, but he didn't know how else to phrase it. "Does that sound fair?"

The kid stared at him. He seemed strangely contemplative, as if he were actually weighing and measuring the terms of their deal, though that was probably just his imagination. Din tried to grasp for that mental thread between them, to see how the kid felt, but it was like trying to catch smoke in his palm.

But the kid seemed to detect the attempt, feeble as it was, and responded with a tug. _Yes,_ he thought the kid was trying to tell him, and smiled.

"Good." He let his hand fall away, and the kid tucked his arm back into his jumper. The frog, oblivious to the pact they had just made, was still minding its own business a few metres away. Din's hand tightened around the hilt of his knife as he stood back up and moved away from the table, trying to figure out how in the hell he was going to do this. His knife wasn't really meant for throwing, and if he missed it would startle the frog. He wasn't sure how easily the thing spooked, either, but he knew the creatures on this planet weren't used to having people around, and it certainly wouldn't be happy with him using it for target practice.

_This wouldn't be an issue if I was wearing my armour. I could use the whipcord to snag the thing—_

He pushed that from his mind, not allowing himself to dwell on it. Din chose his steps carefully, mapping out his approach. Best to circle around it, catch it unawares from behind. From the way the creature's eyes were situated on its head, it probably couldn't see him if he came up from behind. Probably.

Mud squelched under his bare feet, shockingly cold but not altogether unpleasant. Everything felt vibrant and intense—even the air he breathed was a startlingly crisp, and exhaling didn't heat his face as it normally did. It was distracting; he was used to the enclosed walls of his ship being a protective shell for him whenever he removed his helmet. Being outside, exposed as he was, was wrong.

The frog finally twitched, reacting to the sound of one of his footsteps. Din went still. He had a limited range of motion from all his injuries, and he was still too far away from the creature to dive for it. He clenched his jaw, considering his options.

He could get Luke, he thought, and felt an instant spike of resentment. No. He needed to learn how to solve problems on his own. If he couldn't even get the kid a meal, then what hope did he have of—

_Focus._

He snuck a glance at the kid, who was seated patiently on the table with his hands in his lap. His eyes were glued to the frog, intent and waiting.

Din swallowed down his own creeping sense of helplessness and took a measured breath. He could catch a frog. This wasn't a big deal.

He took another step, picking a massive tree root as his foothold. It was much quieter than the mud, and he balanced his weight on that foot before pushing off of it and lunging for the creature.

Cold, wet earth coated the front of his borrowed shirt as he grabbed desperately for the frog, ignoring all the painful twinges that jarred at the impact. The frog croaked in alarm at the sudden movement, limbs coiling to leap away. Fumbling, Din caught one of its slimy legs and held fast, feeling its delicate bones bend in his palm. It let out a screech and squirmed furiously as he readied the knife in his other hand, its other limbs scrambling in the puddle and spraying water everywhere.

He was in too much pain to sit up, especially with his hands full, so he held fast instead. The thing was a lot stronger than he anticipated for a creature of its size. It jerked in his hand, working desperately to free itself, and he felt his grip already beginning to slip. Its skin was impossibly slick, and even the pressure of his fingers around its leg wasn't enough to keep a hold of it. Cursing, and wet with mud, Din swung the knife.

Its leg dislodged from his grasp, and the blade plunged into the shallow water where the frog had once been. With dawning horror he watched it wobble as it hopped clumsily into a patch of mud, favouring its other leg. Struggling to get his hands under him, Din rolled up onto his knees as the frog, recovered from its shock, escaped quickly into the forest.

Breathing hard, he wiped his arm across his face to smear away the muddy water as he sat back on his haunches. His body was screaming at him now, furious at the strain he'd put on his injuries, which all throbbed painfully in tandem. Looking over at the kid, he found him watching on in disappointment, ears drooping and large eyes wide.

Din tipped his head skyward and closed his eyes, breathing hard. Pressure built at his temples, the sting of failure sharp in his throat.

"Sorry," he whispered hoarsely, clenching his jaw. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Luke was rudely awoken by the muffled sounds of a man in pain. With a groan he sat up, rubbing at his face, and frowned when he saw that the Mandalorian's bunk was empty.

"Dammit." Half-asleep, he stumbled up from his bed, slipping on his boots and shuffling towards the door. Almost in afterthought, he grabbed his saber. There weren't a lot of creatures on this planet that were all that dangerous—as long as you stayed on land, anyway. But still.

Shielding his eyes from the dappled morning sun, he wandered outside the cabin to find the Mandalorian holding a long stick in both hands, doing something like drill sets. His eyes were closed, and his face was scrunched in concentration—and pain. No slaying of dragons, then. Just some very stiff-looking morning exercise.

He was also covered in mud.

"Morning," Luke said hesitantly, raising a brow. The man froze, eyes flying open, as if surprised Luke had found him. He was breathing heavily, and his face was shiny with sweat.

The improvised staff hung in the air, mid-swing. "I didn't mean to disturb you," the man said.

Luke shrugged, glancing at the little wrought iron table in front of the cabin. It was a luxury Leia had insisted on, a small breakfast table to sit at and drink tea in the mornings. Right now the only thing it housed was two empty bowls, a knife, and Grogu, who was staring up at Luke inquisitively, the little ball he seemed so obsessed with cupped in his two small hands. He nodded to the kid, smiling faintly.

Yawning, Luke stretched his arms out in front of him. "It's fine," he assured him, and looked back at the Mandalorian. He really needed to learn his name. "I see you're feeling better."

"Not really." He pulled up his dirty shirt tail to wipe at his face, walking back over to the table to rest his improvised staff against the side of the cabin. Luke spotted the now day-old bandages wrapped around his waist. They were dotted red and brown.

"I told you not to push yourself," Luke said then, and ducked back into the cabin before the Mandalorian could reply. He came back out with fresh bandages and the jar of poultice he'd made earlier, and motioned for the man to turn around and pull up his shirt.

The Mandalorian shot him a wary look, shifting his weight onto his back foot. He always looked a moment away from starting a fight, and Luke wondered if all Mandalorians were like that.

"Your bandages need changing," Luke insisted.

"I can do it," the man replied, hand outstretched. There seemed to be a permanent crease in his brow, and it was especially prominent at the moment. It meant the topic wasn't open for discussion.

"You can't reach your back."

"I can."

In a rare show of assertiveness, he met Luke's eyes. They were dark and unyielding, narrowed in challenge.

Luke sighed and passed the bandages to him, unwilling to have a stand-off, and sat down on one of the chairs. They were flaking with rust, but were sturdy enough despite the wear and tear.

He watched the Mandalorian turn his back, pulling up the front of his shirt to unwind the old wrappings. Beside Luke, the baby cooed, and he turned to find a much brighter and more amicable conversational companion.

"You're looking better," he murmured, smiling when the kid's ears perked up. He felt the happy and simple presence of Grogu's register—it was brighter even compared to last night. He was healing well, and quickly.

The Mandalorian's hand entered his field of view, grabbing the knife from the table before quickly retreating. Luke looked up and saw that he was slicing off a long strip of sterile linen, the corner of his shirt held between his teeth as he attempted to apply a fresh poultice to his wounds.

Luke leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. "You don't want help." It wasn't really a question.

The Mandalorian's eyes flicked to him, annoyance evident, before turning away again and glancing back down. The wound was twofold; both entry and exit, and the one on his lower back was particularly difficult to get at by himself.

"Is your dad always this grumpy?" Luke whispered to the kid, who babbled in reply. The silent mirth that sprang forth from Grogu was more than enough of an answer.

It was an entertaining spectacle to watch the man, if infuriating. Juggling a knife, fresh bandages, and the jar of poultice, the Mandalorian had a difficult enough time as it was without awkward angles and additional injuries that limited his mobility. He managed to get the old bandages off, but a string of foul curses came out of the man as a fresh strip of sterile cloth fluttered to the ground, instantly soiled.

Luke stood up with a sigh, approaching from behind. "Hold up your shirt. Or take it off, it's filthy."

"I'm fine—"

"I'm not arguing with you." He reached around and grabbed the jar from the man, which made him go rigid with anger. The Mandalorian glared off into the woods, silently fuming.

"Take off your shirt," Luke said again, more softly this time. "Please and thank you."

There was another moment of glowering, but the Mandalorian finally conceded with a harsh sigh. "Fine." He struggled out of the garment before tossing it onto the back of one of the chairs, and then stood taut in front of Luke, looking like he was about to bolt at any moment.

Luke ignored him and took the bandages from him too, ripping off a fresh strip. When he decided the Mandalorian wasn't going to turn around and hit him or flee into the woods, Luke began by packing the poultice against the gash at his back. This one hadn't opened, but it was red and inflamed. He hoped it was from exertion, not infection. They would have to leave Dagobah if that were the case.

"You don't have a fever, do you?" he asked as he walked around the Mandalorian, guiding the fresh bandage to wind about his waist. The man was still rigid, still clearly uncomfortable with this level of assistance and personal proximity, but his voice was more weary than ill-tempered when he spoke.

"No." He held the bandage in place around his stomach with a hand as Luke completed another walk around. "It's just irritated."

The stab wound in his front was in worse shape. A small part of the seam of healing skin had opened, and blood was oozing out. The Mandalorian hissed when Luke pressed the poultice mixture against it.

"What were you practicing?" Luke asked as he worked, only half-expecting an answer.

"Mandalorian drill sets," he said vaguely. "It's been awhile since I fought with a spear."

"You mean the one you brought with you?" It was still stashed in the X-Wing, along with his jetpack.

"Yes."

Not a great conversationalist, Luke noted. That wasn't surprising; he'd barely spoken the last three days, but Luke had mostly chalked that up to exhaustion and trauma. Apparently he wasn't fond of talking in general.

"Is that why your shirt is covered in mud?"

"I was trying to catch a frog," he muttered. Luke paused and glanced up at him at that, but the man refused to elaborate. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on something indistinct in the middle distance.

"Maybe that's enough for today," Luke hedged, continuing his walk around. "You look tired."

"I need to clean my armour," the Mandalorian said instead of answering him, ignoring the suggestion. "Is there a place to wash here?"

Luke tied off the bandage and stepped back. The Mandalorian immediately did the same, eyeing him warily. He liked his personal space, too.

"Uh, there's a small… well, not a waterfall, but it's a channel in the root system that runs off into a pond. It's not far."

The man nodded, looking back towards the cabin. "I'll need your help moving it," he said, almost grudgingly.

"Not now," Luke objected, drawing his ire once more. "You're—look at you! I can see you swaying around from here."

"I'm fine," he repeated, like words alone could mask the painful pinch of his features, or the unnatural amount of sweat on his face, or the overall unsteady look of him.

Luke walked over and shoved him down into the chair. It barely took anything; just a simple nudge of his shoulder, and he fell back into the seat. The Mandalorian hissed, and jerked his shoulder to dispel Luke's hand. The two glared at each other, but Luke wasn't the one who had just fallen on his ass.

The man's nostrils flared. He projected every single emotion that passed through him on his face. His body language was defensive and poised for a fight, but his expression told a different story. The look in his eyes was cagey and a bit desperate, like he was trying to prove something, and Luke suspected it wasn't _him_ the Mandalorian was trying to do the proving to.

"In the evening," Luke said. "We'll see how you feel. But not now."

The man's throat worked. "I said I'm fine," he replied, the words careful and slow. He didn't meet his eyes.

Luke looked at Grogu, who had gone quiet. He was watching his father, his earlier joy replaced with a deep and helpless kind of concern.

Luke sighed and sat down across from him. He desperately wanted some breakfast, along with a cup of tea, but they needed to have this conversation first. "You're no longer just yourself," he said quietly, and the Mandalorian looked up. "I know you can feel Grogu now. His moods, and maybe even some of his thoughts."

The Mandalorian had an arm braced on the table. He reached over to Grogu, offering his index finger. The kid let go of the ball and let it drop into his lap, grabbing instead onto the proffered finger. The Mandalorian's expression relaxed.

"Not his thoughts, exactly," he said, voice softer now. "It's just—a vague sense, in the back of my head."

Luke nodded. "It's reciprocal." The man's eyes flicked up to him at that, and he continued. "He can feel that you're upset."

His finger wiggled slightly. The kid continued to hold on, and his shoulders shrugged to dispel some of his irritation. "Well, I'm upset," he replied, almost in defeat. "I can't make it go away. I need to—I need to clean my armour."

He glanced over the Mandalorian's shoulder, at the spear he'd improvised. He'd pared down the rough edges of it with his knife, but it was still crude, and not nearly long enough to train with. Whatever demons the Mandalorian was battling, he seemed to feel very strongly about them. "I'll get the rest of your things from the ship," Luke told him. "You can have your spear back—as long as you don't push yourself."

The Mandalorian's mouth twitched. It took him a moment to respond. "Sure," he said finally, quiet and a little reluctant.

"Good. I have one question, though."

He looked up from the kid, his finger going still. "Yes?"

"Can you tell me your name?"

His expression flickered again. Annoyance, mistrust, apprehension. Then, resolve. "Din," he said. "My name is Din."

Luke smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Din."

The Mandalorian laughed softly at that, as if he'd told a joke, but said nothing more, turning his attention back to Grogu, who had let go of his fingers and was now holding his arms up to be held.

Standing up from the table, Luke ducked inside the cabin again, intent on making tea. It was clear their conversation was over.


End file.
